You Shall Go Where They Fly
by chaoswalking
Summary: Detective Nick Burkhardt doesn't believe in Angels. That's all about to change. (One-shot. Implied Destiel. Nick/Monroe bromance. Deathfic.)


_"And that there should be no dispute among them, he took them outside his castle, blew three feathers into the air, and said, "You shall go where they fly."_

"The Three Feathers"

Grimm's Complete Fairy Tales (pg. 227)

* * *

Nick Burkhardt gets the call at midnight, and thick Portland rain soaks into his scalp as he bundles out of his car, and meets Hank at the well-taped crime scene.

He greets Nick with a dip of his head, a raised eyebrow. Rain slicks down his face, and he brushes it away irritably.

"This is weird, Nick," he says, quietly (because Sergeant Wu is crossing the street towards them). "Even for you."

"Wesen?" Nick asks, Monroe's number already on your tongue. But before Hank can respond, Wu is beside him, a grimace on his face and a soaked Manila folder in his outstretched hand.

"This..." He lets out a scoff, and it gets lost in a sheet of slate-colored downpour. "This is...well, I've seen some pretty messed-up shit in my life, and this takes the creepy cake." He beckons them forwards, towards the taped alley-way they are in front of, and Nick shoots Hank a worried look. If this was bad...

They follow him behind the building–it's an old brick hotel, and the discordant red-and-blue lights of the police cars light up the alley-way. Wu drops low into a mock bow, and Nick goes ahead of him with a roll of his eyes. There, a slight overhang protects them from the downpour, and Nick stops just in front of a large, metal dumpster.

Something is pooling in diluted pink rivulets around Nick's sneakers. Pebbles and cigarettes stubs, purplish and once-used, swim like flotsam of the damned in the thin river of blood that slides from the body. Nick wrinkles his nose, and his heart-rate speeds up a bit, slapping restlessly against his ribcage. No matter how many crime scenes (Grimm-related or not) he's come across, he stills feels that automatic human tug of revulsion. He still feels bile rise at the back of his mouth.

Wu gestures towards the body on the ground in a mechanical, cold way. He's narrowed his eyes, confusion clearly written out there. Behind him, Hank's face is a veritable mirror.

It's a dead man. He wears a strangely spotless, if not slightly ruffled tan trench-coat, pooled around him like a ragged cape. His dress shirt (white) is dark with rain water and blood, and his blue tie (backwards) chokes his pale neck in a desperate waterlogged noose. He has messy dark hair and empty blue eyes that gaze, glazed, at the sky.

But it isn't the body that bothers Nick. He looks peaceful enough, almost as if he's simply lying on the ground and counting the shrouded constellations in the bruised night sky.

No, it isn't the body.

It's the burnt-black wing patters, individual feathers neat and dark, that spreads on the ground like ashen graffiti. The wings seem to sprout from the man's shoulders, vast and fully-spread, as if they are in mid-flight.

Nick blinks.

This man is not Wesen, he can tell.

(But he isn't human, either. Nick can tell that too. He doesn't know why.)

It's only when Wu points out with an awkward throat clear that there's something stuck deep in the dead man's chest that Nick comes back to reality.

"Stab wound, obviously. Looks self-inflicted. Never seen a silver blade like this, either," he sighs, dragging a hand across his face. "Suicide, maybe? I mean, he's got a weird-ass note in his trench-coat pocket."

Hank scoots forward in the alley, and above, a clap of thunder shakes the sky.

"Dunno, Wu. This is strange for a suicide. Wing pattern? Definitely not normal."

He bends down to yank open the front of the trench-coat, and a bit of blood stains his hand. He grimaces, and Nick points out the note, sticking out from a small pocket.

As Hank flattens the paper on his knee, clicking on his flashlight, Nick stops to think. He's starting to recognize the man's face and clothing from FBI files, police files, news clippings. He's starting to get an uneasy feeling.

"Hey," he says. "I think I recognize this guy. Jimmy Novak, or something? Went missing a few years ago, local police could never trace him."

Wu is scrunching up his face.

"Well, I'll be damned. Yeah. Wasn't he last spotted with those psycho-killing brothers, down Midwest somewhere? The Winchesters?"

For some reason, the name sends a chill down Nick's spine.

Hank has gotten the note spread and readable. He calls his partner and Wu over, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"This is definitely a suicide note," he says. "Weirdest one I've ever seen."

Nick leans in to read it. The note has only six words, neatly printed.

_FORGIVE ME, DEAN. I HAVE SINNED._

(They have an uncomfortable weight to them. Nick can feel something inhuman stirring, as if something supernatural has just escaped the alley-way. He checks over his shoulder, once. There is nothing.)

"Religious fanatic, maybe?" Hanks is pocketing the note again. "No idea who this Dean guy is, but I guess we'll find out at the station." He sighed, standing. "Better call forensics in here. FBI's gonna want to know that Novak showed up."

He leaves, Wu following. And Nick is alone in the alley with the dead man.

He stares at the wings, undisturbed by the steady stream of rain. What caused this man to kill himself? Nick sees, for an instant, a silver blade plunged guiltily into skin in a private alley-way, a last breath hovering over cold Portland air.

He should take the knife to Monroe. They have no idea what this creature is, or if he's even that. A winged Wesen, capable of hiding itself, maybe? Nick draws his coat tighter around him.

He has no idea who Dean is, but he suddenly hopes that he forgives this Jimmy Novak.

(If it's even Jimmy Novak.)

Whatever sins he committed suddenly seem small to Detective Nick Burkhardt, Portland PD, as he leaves the confines of an alley-way, an anonymous body behind him. He wonders off-handedly who will miss the man. If he was ever important to someone (clearly there was a Dean and two Winchesters involved).

As he gets back into his car, already dialing Monroe's cell number with a free hand, Nick glances up towards the now-crowded street, police cars and forensic specialists already crawling like ants from their vehicles.

He thinks he sees a dark, unfamiliar car parked across the street. The headlights are off, and it looks like a classic. In the front seats, two silhouettes peer outward.

But then Monroe answers, and Nick does not see as the car swerves out and away from the scene, headlights still dark, wheels soft against the pavement.

"Monroe? Got another favor to ask. You believe in Angels?"

...


End file.
